


this (let's remember)

by sinequanon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - War, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, M/M, Memory Alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 01:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10478730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinequanon/pseuds/sinequanon
Summary: Peter has always done his pack's dirty work, but it's not until his sister locks him away in Eichen House that he realizes that he has other priorities.ORA Romeo and Juliet type story featuring less suicide and more murder.





	

In a way, Peter had Talia to thank for his new resolve. No matter how horrendous Peter’s time with Valack had been, it had been the good doctor's forays into his mind that had ultimately given Peter the information that totally reshaped his world.

(Again.)

He had never once regretted his fight for revenge. He had been insane when he’d killed those people, yes, but the only difference between insane Peter and his pre-fire version were the methods he used to accomplish his goals. Pre-fire Peter might not have killed those people (except for Kate, of course), but he would have ruined them all just the same.

His brother's murder had changed him, he’d admit, but it didn't explain why the rest of the family had turned away from him like he’d been the one to betray them. After all, it had been Derek’s dalliance that had led to Evan’s death.

Peter had done his job as enforcer, and the fact that his sister was still making him pay for it only stoked his anger. Even though the torture of Eichen House, he held on to his rage.

And then Valack had found something buried in the corner of his mind--a memory of Stiles, McCall's most cunning strategist--months before that day in the hospital when they had first fought.

The realization of what his family had done to them had been terribly swift and painful.

Recollections of fire and blood were slowly replaced by stolen kisses and lingering looks, of calloused fingers on skin and breathless moans in the dark. The two of them had planned to leave, Peter remembered, to escape this damned town, and Deaton had found out--

The wolf snarled in his head. Peter hadn't yet discovered exactly what his family had done to them in the memories that Valack had unearthed, but he had no doubt he’d remember with time.

He made sure to thank the man for his assistance just before he ripped out his heart.

<> <>

It would take time, and so much patience, to unravel the web that had been woven between them, but Stiles had always been brilliant. Peter would leave Stiles a trail to follow, knowing that the other man's curiosity alone would compel him to investigate.

Regardless, the werewolf could feel the bond thrumming between them even now ( _and_   _so brightly; how had he managed to ignore it before_?), and knew that his love would eventually start remembering as well.

Peter knew, in the same way that he knew the heat of his lover's body against his own, the taste of his lips, that once Stiles remembered, nothing else would ever again come between them.

The wolf smiled darkly at the thought.

<> <>

“Hey, are you okay?”

Stiles looked up into his best friend's eyes and smiled. Scott was staring down at him, a concerned frown marring his normally happy features. Even with the metaphorical elephant tap dancing in his head at the moment, he couldn't not smile at Scott.

“It's just a headache,” Stiles assured him, pressing his palms against his eyelids for a moment to try and block out the light. “I'll be fine as soon as we can get out of this damn meeting.”

It wasn't enough that this stupid war just wouldn't end, Rafael had to constantly talk about it as well.

Seriously, if the humans hadn't discovered the wolves’ military weakness in the last decade, they weren't going to find it. Stiles suspected that man just called the meetings so he’d have an excuse to listen to himself speak.

(If they kept prisoners of war, Stiles was sure that an hour of listening to Rafe McCall drone on would be torture enough to make any werewolf confess to just about anything.)

It wasn't as if the man was any good at strategy, or had any other qualities that made a good leader. No, all he had was prejudice, arrogance, and a seemingly endless supply of guns, which, evidently, was all the qualification necessary to run an otherwise poorly executed war.

Sometimes, Stiles thought about orchestrating a war-ending "accident" in human territory, just so that he and Scott could get some peace and quiet. The Hales could do what they wanted, Scott and Stiles could do what they wanted, and everyone else could get on with their lives.

(Plus, in his opinion, most of the people on the human side of the war were bigoted, racist assholes. Stiles would really be doing the world a favor by getting rid of them.)

“I want to leave Beacon Hills,” he admitted, grimacing at the mix of sadness and understanding written plainly on Scott's face. “You and I both know that your dad hates me; all of the men know that he hates me. Heck, even the werewolves probably know that he hates me. If it wasn't for you, I would have ended up dead in a ditch years ago. I love you, man, but I can't stay here. I know he's your dad, but--”

Scott dropped down next to his friend, slung an arm around his shoulders, and squeezed hard enough to leave bruises. Neither one of them had wanted this life they were living, and Scott didn't begrudge Stiles his chance to get out. “Let me know if you need help?” he asked seriously.

“Of course. What are best friends for?”

<> <>

Peter was both surprised and slightly disappointed that Deaton hadn't anticipated his arrival; surely, Peter thought, the man had been told of his rather high-profile escape, and would be smart enough to realize that the werewolf was coming for him. The most the emissary did, however, was drop his books in alarm when he finally noticed the former Hale pack enforcer hovering in the shadows. Had it not been for that fumble, and a brief widening of the eyes, Peter would have thought the other man wholly unconcerned with his presence.

The memory of Deaton’s self-satisfied smile as he'd leaned over Stiles's prone form flashed through his mind and made Peter's gums itch, and he longed to discover exactly what kind of look would grace the emissary’s face just before he died.

He stepped forward.

“You're not supposed to be here,” the man said, eyes darting between Peter and the back door.

Peter’s smile was all teeth. “No. I should be sitting on a beach in South America, listening to Stiles complain about getting sand in unmentionable places,” he ignored Deaton’s sharp intake of breath, “but since I can't have that, _yet_ , I'm going to need to share my pain and suffering with the rest of the pack. I'm sure you understand.”

“I had to do what was best for the Hales.”

Peter tsked at him. “You had to do what was best for my sister, you mean. After all, how would it look if her black sheep baby brother fell in love, of all things? And with a human, no less.”

“You should be thankful that things turned out as well as they did,” Deaton countered, as he edged toward the door. He knew that he couldn't hope to take Peter head-on, even with the magic at his disposal. There was a reason he did the pack's dirty work, after all. “Talia wanted me to kill Stiles, until I told her that Rafael McCall would jump at the chance to retaliate; I convinced her that altering his memory was enough.”

The werewolf couldn't stop the snarl at the thought of the danger his lover faced from both sides of this damned war. Stiles was endlessly sharp-minded and witty, but (now that Peter could see clearly once again) he could tell that those much-loved traits had been dimmed by Deaton and Talia’s meddling.

Peter remembered being forced to watch Stiles’s eyes glazed over and his struggles ceased as the emissary’s spell did its work. He remembered hearing his sister’s voice in his ear, saying that she was doing this for his own good, making sure he’d be strong and useful to the pack once again. He shook himself out of the memories with a growl.

“Yes, because heaven forbid Talia’s attack dog should slip his leash, isn't that right?”

Deaton shrugged, seemingly forgetting his precarious situation for a moment, and Peter grinned at the thought that it would be the last mistake he’d ever make. “Too many people would question it if Mr. Stilinski suddenly disappeared.”

All at once, Deaton moved to escape, but Peter was vaulting through the air before the emissary made it to the door. “Luckily for you,” he snarled, shoving the other man against the wall and letting his claws come out, “you won't need to worry about that ever again.”

<> <>

Stiles cursed his luck yet again. He’d wanted to be far out of town by now, but the murder of the Hale pack’s emissary a few days before had triggered a rash of fighting that had meant that patrols on both sides had nearly tripled, which meant that Stiles had no chance of sneaking out without anyone noticing. Even if he had Scott cover for him, it wouldn't buy him enough time to get out of the state and away from Rafe and his goons, not to mention the never-ending headache and weird dreams that had kept him from getting enough sleep.

Thankfully, Rafael was too busy plotting with his advisors to notice Stiles's restlessness, but someone else had been watching him with far too much attention.

 _Peter Hale_.

Stiles knew he should be upset, or afraid--or any other number of things a person who's being stalked by the deadliest werewolf on the West Coast should feel--but Stiles only felt inexplicably relieved that Peter was keeping an eye on him. He felt _safe_ , which didn't make any sense considering the two of them had never truly spoken, notwithstanding the fact that Peter was a werewolf who should be trying to kill him.

It was nearly impossible to believe that the werewolf meant him harm, though. Stiles regularly found gifts (useful things, not shiny trinkets) in various odd and unusual places that Stiles had claimed as his own (places that not even Scott knew about), and that piqued his curiosity. His bullies among the other soldiers were mysteriously mauled in the middle of the afternoon, and were so traumatized by the experience that two of them had to be committed to Eichen House. Stiles regularly had the feeling of being watched, and once, after a particularly exhausting day, Stiles thought he felt gentle fingers combing through his hair as he drifted off.

Peter never approached him, but the dreams and the gifts evidently made an impression on Stiles, because one day the young man noticed that his escape plans were now for two people.

<> <>

Peter nearly laughed at the astonishment on his sister's face as she realized what was happening. Her children had long since drifted off, thanks to the sedative he’d added to their dinner, but it had been fun watching Talia slowly succumb to the lethargy as well.

He hadn't bothered being quiet--his sister wasn't strong enough to threaten anyone at the moment--and the flash of fear across Talia's face when she saw him had been enough to make Peter's wolf purr in contentment.

He enjoyed the sight of her gasping like a fish on land for a few moments before he bent down to smile at her. “I must admit, sister dear, that this is a good look for you. If I wasn't certain that the bond would give my dearest all of his memories back, I'd delight in killing you just to break the spell.” Talia had mostly stopped twitching, but was still glaring through half-lidded eyes. He grinned at her. “Instead, we're going to do some memory magic of our own. By the time you wake up, your children will be gone, scattered to the wind, with no memory of you or this family. Good luck finding them and bringing them back into the fold."

“You--” Talia slurred out, before tapering off into a gurgle.

“Yes, I'm going to enjoy this,” Peter agreed amicably.

The front door opened, and Peter listened fondly to the footfalls headed in his direction until a familiar man stood next to him.

The werewolf breathed in the welcome scent of his lover for the first time in months, and felt the knot that had been in his chest since Eichen House loosen. The only thing that could have made the moment better was Rafael McCall's body at their feet as well, but there was always time enough for that later.

“I'm glad you came,” Peter said, gently squeezing Stiles's hand.

Stiles smiled, a little tentatively, but genuinely nonetheless. “I wouldn't have missed it for the world.”

They both watched, hand in hand, as Talia struggled to maintain consciousness for a few more minutes before finally falling limp.

There was a ‘pop’ of magic as the spell settled, and both men breathed sighs of relief.

After a few long minutes of simply holding each other, Stiles broke the silence. “I'd like to see Scott before we go. He’s been on patrol today, and I don't want to leave without saying goodbye.”

“Any other business?” Peter asked.

“No,” he smirked and let Peter lead him outside. “I left behind a few surprises for Rafe and his cronies, but they shouldn't _kill_ anyone. Probably. Maiming is a distinct possibility, though."

Peter snickered as the two of them stepped out into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the poem "this(let's remember)day died again" by e.e. cummings.
> 
> For those of you who don't read crossovers, and may not have seen my note in _witch's brew_ , I've been writing little "extras" for some of my fics. If you're interested in seeing one for a particular story, leave me a comment and I'll see what I can come up with over the next few months. If you've already left me a comment somewhere, I've read it, but you can leave another if you'd like.
> 
> Next week: the next fic in my fairytale series, featuring Chris/Peter/Stiles.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


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